A Day in the Life of Crewman Galloway
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: Enterprise's sous chef has seen some strange things, but this one takes the cake. Rated for strong language, bromancing, and implied A/T'P. DL? DR.


A/N: Oops, my hand slipped. This stems from me forcing my best friend to watch _Enterprise _from the beginning and her wondering aloud what horrible or obscenely hilarious things the minor characters have accidentally walked in on. As soon as I was home, I sat down and banged this out in about half an hour. Sorry for my horrendous grammar, as I am now beta-free. It's less wordy than usual simply because I was in a hurry. There are vague episodic references up to late season two here.

I've been in the groove for writing back stories for side characters as of late, so I can see a series of (hopefully) humorous fics stemming from this precedent. Or...maybe...an explanation of the situation that our maladroit Captain and his intrepid science officer have gotten themselves into. Suggestions? Comments? Please do.

(Side note: As recompense for the horrors I am making her witness, my friend is making me watch Once Upon a Time. Poor, poor Graham. That's all I'm going to say.)

**A Day in the Life of Crewman Galloway**

"Crewman?"

"It it isn't what you think!"

There was a gasp, and then the distinct sound of a glass platter shattering on the deck plating as Crewman Andrew Galloway high-tailed it out of the Captain's mess as fast as he possibly could.

He had just come to deliver Chef's main entrée. Given that Commander Tucker was currently preoccupied with installing upgrades to the EPS grid, he had been tasked with the distribution of vegetarian lasagna for two.

Normally his evenings were benign at their worst. Serve the senior officers, wash dishes, and be awake to make sure that gamma shift receives their first meal of the day. However, his most recent foray into nearly forbidden domain had been anything but innocuous.

His breathing was rapid and heart rate was elevated as he paced down the corridor toward the quarters of the only man who might understand his predicament. He narrowly missed body checking several colleagues in the process and only took mere seconds to offer his apologies before charging onward. Finally, he reached his destination, and, out of habit, rapped on the door.

"Enter," came a voice from within, and the egress receded to reveal a lounging Michael Rostov.

The engineer gave his companion a once over, noticing his flushed face and clutched fists. Setting down his data PADD on a nearby table, he asked, "What's wrong, man?"

"You," Andrew began, hopelessly out of breath, "owe me a cold one."

It took a beat or two for Michael to realize what he was speaking about. Giving a scoff and a slight start, he inquired hastily, "What did you see?!"

"Enough to know that I won the bet. I'd like that beer now, please."

Rostov chuckled and reached under a nearby cabinet where he had jury-rigged a makeshift refrigerator. Enterprise was generally an alcohol-free ship, but any crewman worth his salt definitely had his contacts. As Galloway took a seat across from him on his bunk, he prompted, "Well, don't hold back."

The steward began to speak emphatically, using his hands to gesture broadly. "Okay, so I'm a little late on dinner's delivery, but it isn't _my_ fault. Crewman Cutler came to me, asking some weird shit about possibly making turducken for the next major holiday we have aboard. Apparently it's some sort of Midwestern tradition, and I began to explain to her that that idea was not only impractical but also gastronomically unappealing…"

Michael popped the cap on the bottle and handed it to his friend. Realizing he was getting off track and babbling, as often happened when he began discussing food, he continued, "But it isn't like they didn't know I was coming. I didn't knock, of course I didn't. I was too frustrated over Elizabeth's request. Seriously, that lady was educated in some of the top universities on Earth. You'd think she'd have more of a refined palate."

Andrew paused to take a long swig, then repeated, "You'd_ think."_ He slumped back against the wall and sustained his tale. "So the door opens and that's when I see them."

Rostov cut in, "Commander Tucker wasn't with them?"

"Come on, Misha. You work with the guy. You _know_ that the conduction system has been acting up all week."

He acquiesced with a shrug, "So they were alone."

"Of course they were. And lo and behold, I see our _very Vulcan_ Sub-Commander T'Pol seated on the lap of our _very human_ Captain Jonathan Archer."

"Wait a second. Did she trip and fall into him or something?"

"Don't be a dumb ass. She was straddling him, her hands on his chest. His hands were on her waist, like he had just dragged her over from her seat." He curved his palms and placed them above his hips as a demonstration.

"Andy, I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for this."

"I'm sure that's what they'd tell me. But I know what I saw, and I know what this means. My last girlfriend did that all the time when we were alone. You're dead wrong, man. I always knew that she wouldn't get with Commander Tucker."

Michael frowned. "This doesn't mean I've lost our bet entirely. I mean, have you seen the two argue?" He was reluctant to admit that he might have been mistaken.

"Yes, I have. Everyone from here to the Delta Quadrant has, they're _so_ damned loud."

"There's some definite sexual tension there. Although, I gotta admit, it was kinda shady when the Captain and the Sub-Commander left for the classified mission last month."

"Yeah," Andrew agreed, knowing exactly what he was talking about. They had been gone for almost three days, and no one had ever been informed what exactly they had been up to. But, he assumed, rank hath its privileges.

"Honestly, though. The two senior-most officers aboard the Enterprise caught in the middle of romantic encounter? You'd think they'd have more discretion than that."

"Stranger things have happened. Weren't you in engineering when that wisp possessed Tucker?"

"I was," he acknowledged, and helped himself to his own beverage. "He was acting strangely. I decided to hail Captain Archer about it."

"And we all know what happened after that," Galloway smirked, knowing that he had trapped his friend by verbal circumstance.

"Hey, hey," Rostov protested, pointing at him. "I may be accustomed to weird shit happening all the time in engineering, but you're the one that had to serve Chief the time he got pregnant."

Just like the exposition scene in a bad romantic comedy, the flashback came.

He wasn't sure exactly what had gotten into Enterprise's chief engineer, but he sure had been demanding lately. The previous evening, he had barged into the kitchen and nearly took Chef out in his pursuit of chunky peanut butter. Just a craving for the stuff, he had said, he didn't know what had came over him. And now, Andrew was squatting by a boiling pot of chicken tetrazzini, piling the dish high on an empty platter. He couldn't remember the last time he had had to get seconds for the senior staff. They usually ate like birds, which miffed Chef slightly. Perhaps they were too busy talking about inconsequential diplomatic measures to notice the irresistible delicacies on their plates.

He turned and stalked into the Captain's mess just in time to hear Doctor Phlox say, "You might be putting those nipples to work before you know it."

Andrew stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw slack with surprise. Before he could make a comment or even beat a hasty retreat, Commander Tucker snatched the tray from his arms. His cue had been given, and he had gratefully taken it.

He hadn't been able to look the portly Denobulan in the eye for several weeks after the incident.

"I had no idea what was going on at the time, so it made it even more disturbing," Galloway fought to suppress a shudder before adding, "But it was nothing like the time we passed by that black hole."

On that morning, Andrew remembered taking extra care to make sure that his uniform was wrinkle-free and every hair was in place. Chef Moreau, who normally never took a sick day, had fallen ill the night before. Although he felt more than a little guilty for the inordinate joy he felt upon learning of his boss' sickness, he was enthused to conduct a full galley shift for the first time since Enterprise had left space dock.

He had always loved to cook. His father had been a professional chef at a swanky restaurant on the Upper East Side of Manhattan before retiring to focus on his art, an exhaustively planned novel that he once started but never got to finish. This, of course, caused growing pains for his ever-burgeoning family. His mother worked full-time as a secretary for a faceless executive while her six children took turns fighting for her attention. Andrew, being the youngest, unwittingly became her protégée and faithful right hand man in the kitchen. Sure, she attended Katie's gymnastics meets, and Hayden's basketball games, but in the evenings, when the sun began to wax long shadows over the wooden floors of their cramped apartment, Andrew's relationship with his mother really came to life. Not to mention, having to come up with creative meals for eight on the cheap really fostered his creative side.

He never expected his parents to fund his college education, but he attended culinary school anyways. Familial bonding was replaced with long shifts at a chain fast food restaurant in order to pay for mounting expenses. Andrew felt the need to, as cliché as it was, spread his wings and discover if there really was life beyond the boroughs of the Big Apple. As soon as he heard that Earth's first warp five vessel was in need of civilian labor, he applied. Sure, he would have to work his way up from the bottom, but anything was better than taking orders from an ignorant oaf who didn't know the first thing about their craft.

He had not expected Ensign Sato to volunteer to fill in for Chef, but he had nevertheless welcomed her into the galley with the hope that she would not destroy his chance to shine with her usual harmless bumbling enthusiasm. As he passed through the mess hall, he noticed irate looking crewmen alternating between glaring at empty tables before them and the unusually quiet tray overhang. As he passed through the entrance, he said, "Ensign, if we don't serve something soon, we're going to have a riot on our hands." His pinched tone of voice conveyed his anxiety.

Hoshi appeared to ignore him before raising a spoonful of _oden_ to his lips. "Is this too salty?"

Andrew leaned backwards, puzzled by her behavior. He observed as she took a sip from the ladle, then shook her head in disappointment.

"Something's not right," she sounded contemplative. "Hand me the Kreetassan spice. I'll add it to the stock." Quickly, she then added, "Oh, and I'm out of carrots."

Although Andrew balked at such a discourteous order, he complied. However, he could not stop himself from reminding her of their current situation. "There are twenty-five—"

_"CARROTS!"_ the diminutive woman cried, her voice roaring in Galloway's ears. Suddenly fearful of her intensity, he ran into the storage room to fulfill her request.

Even after he had woken from his extended torpor several days later, he continued to have dreams of Ensign Sato chasing his through the corridors of D Deck, brandishing a sharpened vegetable and dispensing her battle cry. Not frightening in the slightest, but strange. Definitely _strange._

"Archer to Galloway."

Both Andrew and Michael came out of their reminiscent states with a start, making eye contact. Andrew felt himself growing faint. "Oh my God."

The room was silent for a few seconds before Rostov hissed, "You have to answer it!"

"I just ran off without giving them their—"

"What if he thinks you're—"

"But I already—"

"Archer to Galloway." His commanding officer repeated, his request sounding a bit more exasperated the second time around.

Before he could think twice, Andrew shot up and pressed his fingers to the necessary keys. "Galloway here, sir."

"I need to see you in my ready room, Crewman. Immediately."

"Ye…yes sir," he stuttered, turning to face his friend. Moments later, he whispered, "I. Am. So. _Fucked."_

"Tell them that you had to vomit! That you had forgotten to take a casserole out of the oven!" Michael was vicariously living through his friend's dilemma.

Sullenly, Andrew approached the door to leave. Finally, he offered a half-hearted salute to Rostov. "It's been a pleasure knowing you, man."

"Don't be like that. You're going to be fine…right?"

"I don't know. Tell my family I love them." In his mind's eye, he imagined himself being gutted and raked over the coals by an enraged Vulcan female. Who knew how they acted if their emotional barriers came crashing down?

He sullenly made his way to A Deck, recalling the time he and the rest of the crew had been shielded from an ion storm in the catwalk of a warp nacelle for eight days. He had kept himself busy handing out MRE rations and making sure everyone's canteens were filled, but other than that he had felt pretty damn useless.

_I bet I'll be even more useless to everyone when I'm dead,_ he thought morosely, finding himself on the bridge. Pressing the compulsory buttons, he entered to face his eminent doom.

Captain Archer and Sub-Commander T'Pol were there, for once maintaining a professional distance and noticeably avoiding eye contact with one another. As soon as he laid eyes on his Captain, stern and centered as usual, he began to babble.

"I'm sorry, sir, ma'am, I forgot to bring your dessert. I…uh…realized that I had left the water running in my room! Yeah! It would have been a real tragedy, seeing an entire section of E Deck flooded like that. My roommate would have been angry, that's for sure." He tittered uneasily, but was cut off by Archer's raised hand.

"Crewman, please." For the first time since the incident, Andrew saw him glance at his science officer. He then began, "I'm sure that you believe that you have caught Sub-Commander T'Pol and me in a compromising position."

"C-compromising, sir? No, I—"

"Crewman Galloway, there is no need to become anxious. You are not being reprimanded." Although her tone was kind, her eyes remained hard, squarely focused on his.

"I'm not?"

"No," Archer made a feeble attempt at a smile. "It was a simple misunderstanding."

"Oh, was it?" He returned his expression, frowning in its stead.

"It was," the Vulcan began, "something that humans are often privy to in various social situations. I understand that discretion is required in the divulgence of some of the more _extreme_ occurrences?"

Had she even blinked? Her voice had become lower, darker. Andrew felt vaguely threatened, but he eventually replied, "Yes, ma'am."

"Just a simple accident, Crewman," Archer concluded, "You're free to return to your duties for today."

"Oh, um…yessir." He turned to leave.

"And…Mr. Galloway?"

He looked over his shoulder at his commanding officer, who only had a single vague warning to offer. "Remember the old adage about jumping to conclusions."

Andrew's stomach lurched. Perhaps he knew how a majority of the crew gossiped about him and T'Pol? He nodded hastily and stepped out to return to the galley. He was in need of a stiff drink.

_Or several._

However, just as the doors to the Captain's ready room slid shut behind him, he heard that unmistakable feminine voice say, "Perhaps it would be prudent to utilize door locks next time."

But perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for that as well.

**The End**


End file.
